Back To What You Know
by Moonbutton
Summary: Short n 'not sweet' ?


Back To What You Know  
  
Miss Parker eased her self onto the sofa, a glass in one hand the other holding the remote for the stereo. She tucked her bare feet under her body and attempted to find some state of relaxation. A long, hot soak in the tub had failed on that count so she'd decided to hit the bottle, despite the repercussions she knew she would feel later.   
  
Flicking through the stations on the radio did not appease her mood; endless carols and Christmas novelty tunes permeated the radio waves and she turned the stereo off in disgust. Gulping down the scotch in her glass she cast a glance at the corner of the room, where the tree usually stood proud and tall at this time of year - and where a single decoration would hold bittersweet memories of her mother. It would be about this time that her father would phone to disappoint her and she'd face the festive season alone yet again. She would this year too, her father had jumped out of a plane at thirty thousand feet more than two weeks ago.  
  
She poured herself another drink from the bottle she had placed on the small side table to her left. She swirled the liquid around the glass slowly, thinking of happier times when her mother was alive. What was it about this time of year that made her feel even more isolated than usual? The obvious answer was that she chose to be this way. With that realisation she knocked back the second glass in one go and refilled, resisting the urge to pour larger measures. Sydney and Broots had both expressed an open invitation to her to join them over the holidays but she had turned them down.   
  
She began to sip at her third drink, the first two already beginning to have the desired effect, when there was a knock at her door. She cursed under her breath and chose to ignore it, hoping whoever was on the other side would take the hint and leave. She didn't want to have to deal with Sydney, who she thought the most likely culprit, or worse Lyle or Raines. The knocking continued.  
  
She downed the rest of her drink and stood, a little uneasily at first. Each step towards the door raised her anger a notch higher, any euphoria she was feeling from the alcohol slowly negated. A glance through the spyhole made her anger reach the pinnacle. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, letting some of her anger go with it. Still with one eye looking through the hole she gently brushed her fingertips against the inside of the door as if she could touch the man outside. Despite her better judgement she opened the door. Hell, she could always blame the alcohol.   
  
Jarod stood at the threshhold, a little apprehensive and with good reason. The sight of Parker clad only in silk pyjamas threw him momentarily, the deep red of her garments being the only admission visible in the room that Christmas was upon them.  
  
"What do you want Jarod?", she growled.  
  
"Soldiers in the great war once called a truce on Christmas day, they even played a friendly game of soccer." Jarod spoke softly, "Can we call a truce, Miss Parker? For one day?" Her enforcement of the rules after everything that had happened, almost happened, had only strengthened his resolve and did nothing to temper his feelings for her.  
  
"It's not Christmas day", she stated flatly, arms crossed defensively. She stared at him a moment longer before muttering, "Fine." She reasoned it was too cold to stand on the doorstep and debate the finer points of whatever it was Jarod had got so wound up about that he had to call in person. Besides the chill from the winter scene outside was beginning to have an effect upon certain parts of her body - and she didn't want to go down that particular alley.   
  
He watched as she sighed at him then turned on her heels and walked back into the house leaving the door ajar. Taking this as the best invitation he would get, and as an encouraging sign, he stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him.  
  
She poured herself another drink as he shut the door and, sitting down, wondered if she should feel vulnerable attired in only her pyjamas - that she didn't she put down as a result of the alcohol. Her mind flittered, as it often did, to their most recent 'ceasefire' on the island.   
  
Jarod stood inches inside of the door. In matters of self preservation he always abided a major rule: if you must place yourself in a dangerous situation it was always wise to position yourself between the exit and the potential source of harm. Of course it was even wiser to not put yourself into a dangerous situation to begin with... He rested his hands flat against the door behind him, the wood feeling cold but very real and reassuring; he was inside at least and not out lying in the yard, his blood darkening the pure snow. He mentally shook his head of that image and cleared his throat, "I wondered how you were", he ventured.  
  
Miss Parker sipped at her drink, not taking her eyes off her long time prey. Despite her statement regarding the hunt she had no inclination of going for her gun, of calling The Centre. It wasn't something she even agreed with anymore, if she ever had to begin with. "And you couldn't call me in the middle of the night, as usual?", she ground out before taking another sip, desperately trying to reclaim some of the good feeling she had carefully sculpted and Jarod had so easily stolen.  
  
Jarod watched her carefully and tried to estimate how much she had drunk. He discarded the idea of mentioning her ulcer and the negative effects the alcohol would have. "No." He remained near the door.  
  
"I don't have my gun, Jarod." She watched him intently as he offered a half smile in response and she could see him assessing the situation. She turned her attention to the glass in her hands but from the corner of her eye she watched him cautiously approach the sofa. She hoped he had news of her father, but she wasn't betting a great deal on that. She knew why he'd turned up: stating the obvious to Jarod was never enough - he always had theorise, run tests, find out for himself. And now he was testing her, seeing if she would crumble; she had no intentions of doing so but it's easier to lie when you're not looking someone in the eye. Though her father never had any difficulty.   
  
Jarod perched himself on the opposite edge of the sofa to his huntress, unable to truly relax - a skill that had kept him alive many times. Yet he longed to lose just that with the woman to his left. It had seemed a good idea, to come here like this rather than just talk to her over the phone, especially with regards to their last conversation. "So, how are you, Miss Parker?", he asked gently, aware of how she must be feeling, if she was allowing herself to feel at all.  
  
"I'm just peachy, Jarod. My father is most likely dead, I now work for the devil himself and have the honour of having a psychotic for a twin - with whom I am in a race for life and death with." She knocked back the rest of her drink before continuing, "And now, just when I was going to find a little bit of heaven, a small piece of nirvana you turn up." Her voice lacked any venom, instead it was laced with resignation. The alcohol had little effect other than to burn a pathway to her empty stomach. It was odd how easily one could sober up given the right incentive.  
  
His leather jacket creaked gently as he slumped into the sofa, relaxing a little - he guessed she'd had more than a couple of drinks which would give him an advantage should things take a turn for the worse. "You won't find solace in the bottom of the bottle", he offered carefully.  
  
Miss Parker snorted, "I'll find it where I like Jarod. It has nothing to do with you." Her anger flared up and she fought to control it, better to not show any emotion. "Nothing at all", she whispered.  
  
"Parker", Jarod began, his voice deep and calm.  
  
"Don't Jarod. Just don't", she interrupted, her voice strangely quiet. She reached for the bottle and began to pour another measure into her glass, refusing absolutely to look at the man on her right.   
  
"Don't what, Parker?" He let his gaze settle on her even though she refused to meet it. She could be so resistant at times. And so could he. "Tell you that you don't have to do this. That it doesn't have to be this way, for either of us. Are you going to condemn yourself to another Christmas alone?"   
  
"Why not? Christmas is not just about happy families Jarod - it's not like in the movies or on television. People still die, still do shitty things to each other and to themselves; families still fall apart, couples break up. And people still chose to spend time alone."   
  
"Even when they don't have to?", Jarod asked softly. The invitation hung in the air for a long drawn out moment as he carefully studied her profile waiting for any indication that she would waver.  
  
She stared ahead, tightly gripping the bottle and glass that were now resting on her lap in each hand. Her head swam with thoughts as she scrutinised everything in front of her rather than looking to her right. All she could hear was the beating of her heart and the rushing of blood to her head. She knew what he was asking of her, once again he was offering her something that she really did want. She fought the urge to say something that she would regret as a battle raged between her heart and her head. It was akin to standing in an airplane about to parachute out: part of her urged her to jump, to take the plunge into freedom, that it would be safe - she had a parachute after all; the other part urged her to stay on the plane, stick to what you know - take the easy option. And she chose the latter. "I'm not Scrooge and you certainly ain't no Christmas spirit", she muttered.  
  
He leaned a little closer towards her, "I care about you Parker, I always will. I can't bear to see you like this."  
  
She set the bottle back down on the table with a loud thump and stared at the contents of her glass for a long moment, she didn't have to glance to her right to know that Jarod was still staring at her, patiently waiting for a response. "Typical Jarod, always trying to save people", she rebuked. Gathering her thoughts she finally met his gaze, "Why can't you understand? You can't save me Jarod, I sold off my soul a long time ago." She could remember the exact day, the day when she'd started to pretend herself. The day she'd learnt to look the other way, to ignore the pain in Jarod's eyes - the pain she still caught sight of on occassion.  
  
"You could always save yourself", Jarod countered, "Walk away from all this. Don't look back."  
  
"Like you have?", she glared at him, letting her anger take control as he continued to push her. Funny how he always came back, he was still bound to The Centre as much as she herself was. "We both have too many unanswered questions to just walk away." She held off imbibing any more liquor making the glass in her hands redundant but she held onto it reassuringly. She needed to keep a clear head and Jarod's proximity, combined with the remaining effects of the drink, was threatening her earlier resolve.  
  
"So we keep playing this stupid game", Jarod stared deeply into her eyes, desperately searching for some kind of indication that she would relent. Searching for something he had seen there not too long ago on the island.  
  
"Like I said, 'You run, I chase'. It's how it has to be", she lied, trying to convince herself, as much as Jarod, in the process.  
  
"Nothing's changed?", Jarod asked hesitantly whilst still searching her eyes.  
  
"Not between us it hasn't", she reiterated calmly, squashing down the little voice that screamed 'liar'. In truth the only thing that had changed was that they both had came to the same realisation; except Jarod had a different way of dealing with it.  
  
Jarod nodded his head slowly and swallowed down her rejection. The only thing he could see present in her eyes was the cold blue. He rose quickly and silently, making it to the door before turning abruptly to face the woman who had once been his only friend and who, despite everything, still held a great part of his heart. "I won't give up", he whispered softly as he reached to open the door. The fact that she hadn't captured him, had instead let him inside, gave him something to hold onto. He took one last long look before leaving, gently shutting the door behind him but failing to hear her whisper, "I know."  
  
It was only when the door was firmly closed that she let the tears fall, soft droplets landing delicately upon her pyjama top, darkening the material. She placed her glass next to the bottle, she didn't need anymore to drink tonight. She'd had enough. In truth she'd had enough of everything; The Centre, her job, the stupid game she kept playing with Jarod. And yet these were the things she clung to, the only things she really had. The only things she knew.  
  
She wiped the tears, muttering to herself to get a grip. It was then that she noticed the small box in the corner of the sofa Jarod had vacated. She reached over for it without hesitating and carefully brought it onto her lap. She undid the bow in no time and slid off the lid, only pausing for the briefest of moments to admire the meticulous wrapping - and to ponder how Jarod had managed to hide the box from her during his visit. Inside she found a hand carved statuette; a cherubic angel of about four years old who was gingerly holding onto a fallen halo in both hands, a guilty expression upon her face. She acknowledged the fact that the angel bore a striking resemblance to herself at that age, right down to the colour of her eyes.  
  
She lightly ran her fingers over the angel. Jarod never gave up. It struck her at that moment that her relationship with Jarod was not unlike the one she had shared with her father. One person constantly reaching out to the other, always extending opportunities, only to be continually disappointed because the other party wouldn't, or were unable to, reciprocate. She knew that in her relationship with Jarod it was the former - she wouldn't allow herself to give him anything in return; she would only end up getting hurt. She wasn't sure if her father would have given the same answer. Fresh tears began to fall and she hugged herself, the angel still grasped in one hand. 'Merry Christmas, Parker', she thought to herself. 


End file.
